Not What Was Thought
by PattiAnne
Summary: Harry's life has bottomed out. Facing humiliating problems and depression, Harry struggles to survive, as other struggle to help him.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Number 4, Privet Drive

Harry Potter woke suddenly, but years of conditioning taught the skinny 16 year old not to move to sit up, or even open his eyes. Instead he listened carefully. It sounded like late morning in Little Whinging. He could hear the quiet rumble of cars outside on the street, and the occasional yelps of happily playing children. Straining his ears for sounds inside the house, Harry lifted his head slightly from the pillow that blocked his ear. He heard nothing. After several, moments he finally opened his eyes and looked around. He grabbed at his nightstand for his glasses and his watch. Donning them, he headed to the window to peer outside. The Dursley's car was gone, which was no suprise to him. Lately the family, short their nephew, of course, had taken to going to church and Bible study on Sunday mornings. Harry thought the idea was almost laughable. Vernon Dursley, of all people, becomming an upstanding member at St. Aiden's Church. The man who terrorized him so thoroughly, was becomming an increasingly respected member of the community.

Harry sighed and went back to his bed. He stripped off the sheets and blanket, and took them, along with a pile of muggle clothes sitting on the floor, and headed out of his room, unlocking the door with a quick jab of a hairpin. Sometimes he felt that Fred and George Weasley taught him more than the entire Hogwart's teaching staff combined. Harry headed quickly to the basement and put his bloodied load in the wash. He quickly washed any residue of blood off of his hands in the wash sink next to the machine, and headed back upstairs, and into the bathroom. Because it was Sunday and the Dursley's were out, he was able to take a long hot shower without being interupted.

Harry quickly undressed and got into the shower. He turned the water as hot as it would go and simply stood under it. At first the water stung. He twitched involuntarely as it burned his skin, but after only a few seconds his body relaxed. He no longer felt the pain, or even the water. For a long time the boy stood there not thinking as his skin turned varying shades of red and white. After several minutes of doing nothing, Harry reached quickly to the soap and wash cloth. He began to scrub his body, as if he were covered in poisen. Most of the dried blood that had caked his skin earlier had been rinsed away by the steamy water, but he continued to scrub as if nothing could come off. A half hour after he had entered, the boy emerged from the shower red and raw. He wrapped a towel around his waist and sat down on the lid of the toilet. Cringing at the pain and thinking better of it, he quickly stood up again. His attention now turned to his left arm. From around his armpit almost all the way down to his wrists he was covered in cuts. They were his cuts, not like all the other bruises and scrapes on his body (which had been given to him courtesy of his uncle Vernon.) A slight smile played at Harry's lips as he examined his wounds. They were red and puffy, and most of them had their scabs ripped off in the shower. One particularly deep gash just above his elbow was so infected that a ridge of white and yellow crowned the cut, which then gave way to red puffiness. He immidiatly set to work picking off any scabs that had survived his scouring.

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"Boy I oughta whack you upside the head for your laziness!" Screamed Vernon Dursley as he thumped loudly into Harry's room. The large man was still in in his church clothes, which consisted of black dress pants, a white sleeved shirt, a set of suspenders stretched so tightly they looked as if they were about to pop, and a dark orange tie that looked too short over the man's enormous belly. The red-orange tie hardly complimented his uncle's ruddier-than-normal complexion. When Harry considered his uncle's thick walrus mustache, he realized that the man in front of him looked quite ridiculous. He laughed darkly to himself.

"What are you laughing at, you freak? You think it's funny that you didn't do your chores while we were gone?" his uncle roared.

Harry did his best to collect himself and politely said "No sir, I do not think it is funny that I neglected cook your lunch. I was laughing because I couldn't decide if you looked more like a drunken lion tamer or an exploding penguin." Harry had kept his voice even, but now he lost himself in laughter as he ran from an enraged Vernon. The man followed him down the stairs, through the house to the kitchen, and out the back door. Harry easily jumped the fence in the back yard and ran down the alley. He spent the rest of his Sunday wandering aimlessly around Little Whinging. He knew he would eventually have to return to Privet Drive, but so long as that time wasn't now, he didn't care.

Walking the streets, however, was not his favorite thing to do. What used to be a relaxing past time now only offered him quiet time to think about his past year. He had just finished his 6th year at Hogwarts. Well, to be correct, he did not finish the year. He was sent back to the Dursleys about a week sooner than expected. Professor McGonagall, now the Headmistress, had canceled exams and sent the students home directly after Professor Dumbledore's funeral. The thought of Dumbledore's death used to put a sickening knot in Harry's stomach, however now, a full month later, he felt nothing. Dumbledore died. He accepted it as though it were any other bit of information. Hermoine was a girl, Ron had red hair, Percy was a git, and Dumbledore had died. It felt much different from when Sirius had died. Last year at this time, as Harry reluctantly recalled, he was laying on his bed refusing to eat or sleep or speak. Sirius' death had been hard on him. He supposed that he had met some sort of emotional quota. He simply didn't feel anymore. A dull satisfaction rushed through him at this realization.

Harry rounded the corner and set down a road filled with mostly industrial buildings. Although he couldn't feel much, he had to admit that he could think- perhaps at a quicker pace than ever before. 'Although it ought to be quick,' Harry thought to himself, 'considering I have the same thoughts over and over again.' At that moment he snapped into one of the several repeated thought lines: Snape.

The thought of Snape, like that of Dumbledore, used to elicit an emotional response so extreme that Harry felt ill. But, as with Dumbledore, he feelings had died. He no longer felt overwhelming anger and guilt when he thought of his former professor. He no longer felt betrayed and vengefull to the point of murder. Now he just accepted it. Hermione was a girl, Ron had red hair, Percy was a git, Dumbledore had died, and it had been Snape that killed him. Did he remember to clean the lint trap in the dryer when he took his bedding out? He hoped so, because his aunt would go ballistic if he hadn't...

"Hey you! Yeah, you, boy!" a vioce shouted out to Harry from the loading bay of a factory to his left. Harry looked at the man, but didn't recognize him.

"Y-Yes, sir?" replied Harry politely. Years of McGonagall and Snape had embedded manners so deep into his brain he couldn't ignore them if he wanted to. The factory man only narrowed his eyes scanning for traces of sarcasm.

"What the hell are you doing here?" the man asked, not unkindly.

"I was just walking, sir." Harry replied

"For Christ's sake, I can see that, boy." The man stepped closer. "What I want to know is why you are walking down a private drive at dusk on a Sunday. Trying to knick some tools or materials for you and your little mates?"

Harry turned and glanced behind him. Sure enough he had walked past a sign that read Private Property: Do Not Enter. He then looked at the sky. It was, indeed, dusk. He had been walking for about eight hours, and had not even noticed it. Harry turned back to the man, but kept his eyes slightly out of focus. "I am sorry, sir, I hadn't realized I was off the main road." He turned to leave.

"Boy, wait." the man said quickly. Harry looked up at him again. "You're bleeding."

"What?" asked Harry.

"From your arm, there. It's commin clear through your shirt." the man pointed at Harry's arm. Harry felt his sleeve with his right hand and sure enough, it was coated with blood. Had he been picking at it? It wouldn't be the first time it had happened.

"Oh." was all Harry said to the man. He turned quickly and ran off, away from the man.

"Wait, boy!" he shouted after Harry. "Come back! You can clean up here!"

Harry just ran.

'Why did I run?' Harry asked himself. It isn't as if the man was somebody he knew. It was likely he'd just hand him a couple paper towels and perhaps a bandaid and send him on his way. Even if he somehow managed to guess about the cuts, it isn't as if he knew who Harry was or where to find him. But still, he didn't want anyone to know about his cutting, and felt that being overcautious was far better than risking exposure. Harry walked around for several more hours going over his reasoning for running. He refused to listen to that small part of him that wished he had simply pulled up his sleeve and shown the man his cuts.

At about 12:30am Harry found himself creeping quietly through the window to Dudley's room. It was dangerous, but couldn't be avoided. The doors were locked and the windows on the first floor were clamped shut. The window to his room had nothing so much as a power line withing 20 feet of it. Dudley's room had a rose trelace. So, ignoring the thorns that dug into his hands, Harry climbed the trelace and slipped silently through Dudley's window. He moved quickly across the room, into the hall, and down into his own bedroom. Without daring to turn on the light, Harry shook off his shoes and went to crawl into bed. His clean bed, with clean sheets. However, when he sat down he felt somebody else, sitting on the very edge, as if waiting for him.

It was Uncle Vernon. The man growled and grunted softly and he grabbed his nephew. He turned the boy toward him and punched him hard in the stomach. All the air flew out of Harry in the second after the blow. Before the boy could regain his breath, Vernon stood up and dragged Harry over to the foot board of the bed. He bent Harry over it roughly. He held Harry down at the neck with one hand, and held the boys knees apart with his legs. Vernon tugged at Harry's too-big sweats and the drawstring snapped, sending his pants down past his thighs. With a quick motion Veron had rid the boy of his underware as well. He quickly undid his own trousers, and leaned in over Harry. He moved his hand from the boy's bruised neck to the base of his arms. He was breathing rather erratically and Harry could feel spit as his uncle whispered "This'll teach you, boy." into his ear.

Harry felt his uncle pound against his backside and enter into him. He felt warm blood trickle from old cuts inside him that had not yet healed, and probably some new lacerations as well. Uncle Vernons sweaty form pounded harder and harder into Harry, which in turn pounded Harry harder and harder into the footboard of the bed. Despite his desire to stay silent, he let out a pained, high pitched groan as his groin was mashed against the board. Vernon gave a gruff laugh and pounded extra hard. Harry let out another gasp of pain. At this, Vernon gave a thunderous moan and Harry felt hot sticky semen drip from his backside as his Uncle pulled out of him. Harry, wanting to turn and run, but too weak and too hurt to do so realized that at least Vernon could leave without seeing him from the front. A sorry bit of privacy, Harry knew, but one that he had no choice but to tie his remaining pride to. Vernon closed his trousers and made to leave quickly, as he usually did after such an "incident." However, this time he lingered.

"Stand up boy." he growled. Harry did not move. Vernon reached forward and grabbed the back of Harry's messy brown hair, and pulled him into a standing position, though still facing away. "Go lay on the bed." he ordered. Harry complied, though did so without turning to face his uncle. Before laying on the bed, Harry quickly snatched his clean blanket and used it to cover himself up to his armpits as he layed down on his back.

Vernon crosed the room, but instead of going through the door, he simply turned the light on and crossed back to Harry's bed. He ripped off the blanket, so that Harry was laying naked and exposed on his bed, under the light, with a pool of blood forming under his waist. He forgot how to breath out of the shame, and tried very hard to turn his mind off. 'Don't do magic, don't do magic, don't do magic...' Harry repeated to himself. He didn't want to draw anyone's attention to what was happening, and doing underaged magic in front of a muggle was begging for trouble. He tried to look defiantly into Vernon's eyes, but when he did so, he saw his uncle staring at his arm. He was looking at the cuts. Slowly, he brought his eyes to Harry's face and grinned at him with his most malicious, evil grin. His eyes squinted in pleasure at knowing what Harry was doing to himself.

"I've been trying to teach you to behave and mind your place in my house, boy, but it looks now that you are so dim you couldn't even teach yourself." Vernon's eyes now moved down his body and rested on Harry's genitals. Again, Harry forgot how to breath.

"You sould know, boy, that you are under my control and at my mercy." He reached down and took Harry's penis in his hand. He rubbed it roughly, and looked back at Harry's face. He smiled when he saw the boy had tears rolling from his clenched eyes. "Look at me!" Vernon hissed. Harry obeyed. "Now I am going to show you just how much control I have over you. You think you can run from me, but when it comes down to it, we both know that I can control you completely. You can't stop me. Go ahead and try boy." With that Vernon began shaking Harry's penis roughly, but not so roughly that the boy couldn't get an erection.

Tears slid thicker over Harry's face as Vernon continued. Whenever Harry closed his eyes or looked away, Vernon pinched hard. Finally Harry forced himself to watch his uncle manipulate him into arousal. No matter what Harry did, no matter what he thought, he couldn't stop himself to responding to his uncle's touch. Finally, after a few minutes of fighting, Harry climaxed. He could feel his own hot semen land on his belly, just as it did when he did this himself.

Vernon gave a smirk and a grunt of a laugh. He got up, crossed the room, and left.

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Chapter Two

Harry did not sleep. He stayed in his bed until he could hear his uncle snoring from the next room. He got up, grabbed some clean pajamas, and tiptoed to the bathroom. He did his best to clean himself off, and tried to dress. The bleeding from where Vernon had entered him had slowed, but not stopped. Harry sighed, and reached into the little drawer under the sink. He pulled out one of Aunt Petunia's maxi pads and placed it inside his briefs, before pulling on his pajamas.

Back in his room Harry went immediately to the loose floorboard under his bed. Inside his hiding place were his wand, the locket he and Dumbledore had taken from the lake, the photo album Hagrid had given him, and a small razor blade.

Harry grabbed the blade, rolled up his sleeve, and began to draw it over his skin. Deep gashes dribbled out streams of blood. After four long, deep cuts were made on his already mutilated skin, Harry dropped the blade to his side, and just watched the blood. He didn't have to think about anything else for the moment, only the blood really mattered.

Finally, he looked over to his once-clean, now-bloody sheet and grabbed it. He cleaned the blood from his arm on it, and held it tight against the cuts to stop the blood from trickling out again. Harry looked in disgust at the sheet. He had just washed it this morning! He had waited three whole days until Sunday so that he could get a chance to wash his sheets. Tonight was supposed to be his first night where he didn't sleep in a mess of dried blood and semen. He was looking forward to it, and now it was gone. Suddenly Harry felt something. A sense of loss. His anger and dispair at his sheets being dirty was greater than anything he had felt about Dumbledore, Voldemort, Snape, and Vernon in the last several weeks combined. It overwhelmed him. Grabbing his wand from the hole in the floor he pointed it at the disgusting mass of sheets.

"Scourgify." he muttered firmly. In a flash, the sheets were clean.

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"Mr. Potter? Mr. Potter, wake up." commanded one voice.

"Harry? Come on, wake up." said another. The owner of the second voice was gently shaking his shoulder.

Harry knew the voices, but wasn't entirely coherent enough to place them. He felt that they were trustworthy, though, so he opened his eyes. To his suprise he found himself looking at Professor McGonagall and Bill Weasley. He looked around. He was still in his bedroom at the Dursleys, and his body hurt immensely, but when he looked back at his visitors they were still there. Something hooted from his desk. He looked, expecting to see Hedwig, but saw a brown and white owl that he didn't recognize. Confused and still half asleep, he turned his eyes to Professor McGonagall. Meeting his eyes she conjured two chairs and pulled one up to the bed and sat down; Bill did the same.

"Mr. Potter, do you know why we are here?" She asked. Harry shook his head no, just to be safe. McGonagall continued looking somewhat speculative. "We are here because Aurthor Weasley contacted us this morning and said that you were detected by the Ministry for using a cleaning charm early this morning."

"Oh." was all Harry could manage. Carefully making sure the sleeves of his night shirt were pulled all the way down, Harry drew himself into a sitting position against the headboard of his bed. When it became clear McGonagall was waiting for some further explanation he looked at the owl. "Is that the owl from the Ministry then? I didn't see one arrive before I fell asleep."

"Yeah, Harry, it is the owl from the Ministry." answered Bill. "We haven't read the message, but Dad pretty much said that you are going to get off the hook. Apparently the Ministry is a little concerned with You-Know-Who to spend their time chasing underage wizards who clean their rooms in the middle of the night while their muggle relatives sleep." He shot Harry a half smile.

"Oh." Harry said again. McGonagall was looking promptingly at him, so again he chose to speak. "I guess I am lucky then, huh?"

McGonagall spoke now. "Mr. Potter- Harry. Harry, I would agree that you were lucky if the room that supposedly had a cleaning charm performed in it wasn't in shambles and spattered in blood." She reached out and took his hand in hers. It was less akward than he would have expected. "Harry, what happened here?"

Harry looked quietly around the room. It had become a hobby of Vernon's to smash Harry's things when he was angry, so Harry barely noticed the broken mirror, the pile of wood that used to be a chair, or random pages of torn up books and magazines that littered his room. There were dents and cracks in the soft drywall from where his head or back had been thrown into it. Worst of all, he could see smears of blood on his footboard, and droplets of the dryed substance trailing back and forth across the floor where he had walked. Two bloody footprints lead from the footboard to his bed, and his body grew rigid when he realized there must be a pool still sitting on the floor where Uncle Vernon had bent him over last night.

Harry didn't know what to do or say. He dared to look at Bill, hoping against hope that the young man would provide him with a cover story. Harry never met his eye though, it went instead to the bundle he was holding in his lap. It was bloody and wadded. Harry could make out the torn sweatpants and underware that he had been wearing the night before.

He looked down and realized that his hand was still inside McGonagall's. He looked at it like he had never seen a hand before, but did not withdraw it. He continued to look, he didn't know what else to do. Did they know what had happened? Perhaps they thought he was simply beaten. Harry decided that he would stick with the beating story.

"Uncle Vernon and I got into an arguement. I know I was wrong to use magic. I am sorry." he tried to explain.

To his suprise, McGonagall rose from her seat, and without dropping his hand, sat down next to him on the bed. Her face looked more motherly and understanding than he ever would have thought she could be. "Harry," she began softly, "we've seen your clothing. Your pants and underware were ripped down off of you. They are covered in blood. The puddle and smears at the end of your bed... Harry we can figure out what happened."

"You're wrong." he replied strongly.

"Okay, Harry," said Bill, as softly as McGonagall, "then we are. Nonetheless we are going to bring you back to Grimmauld Place with us. Alright?"

"I don't want to go there." he responded quickly. It was true, he didn't want to go there. He wanted to be left alone. McGonagall shifted slightly beside him.

"Harry, the time required with your relatives is up, but you are not yet of age, nor do you have anywhere else to go. Please come with us."

He couldn't argue, he had nowhere else to go. Couldn't he stay at the Leaky Cauldron again? Couldn't he rent a room somewhere? But suddenly he felt very tired. Too tired to argue. He would go with them, it seemed to only option for the moment. He nodded slightly to them.

"Okay then," said Bill, "Let's get you ready to go. Is all your stuff in this room?" Harry nodded. "Alright, how about Minerva and I start packing and you get up and ready. We've placed a charm on your relatives. Right now they could sleep through a tornado." Harry attempted a weak smile, and started to move.

In only a moment Bill and McGonagall were hunched over, gathering some books into his trunk. Harry decided to get up quickly, grab some clothes, and head quickly to the bathroom. It had to be fast though, because he was sure there had to be some bloodstains on his pajama pants. Harry ached all over, particularly on his backside. Walking was more difficult than he remembered it being before, and his legs felt wobbly under him. His vision was not only blurred, but also spinning and he could feel blood spilling over Petunia's saturated pad and down his leg. He hurried as fast as he could to the dresser and bent over to reach inside for some clothes. As he did this, the tops of his thighs, the small of his back, and the bottom of his gut seared with pain. He let out a small gasp and crumpled to the floor. For a split second he had hoped his visitors didn't notice him fall, but they were hovering over him almost the second he hit the ground. He did not look at them, only at the floor. He heard McGonagall whisper something about blood to Bill, and then felt Bill's strong arms pick him up and take him to the bed. McGonagall immediately wiped his forehead with a cool damp cloth, and he was suprised to feel relieved. He didn't even know he was sweating.

"Harry, you kinda fell over a bit, so we're just going to help you get ready to go, alright?" said Bill nonchalantly. Harry looked at him and tried to tell him no, but he was so tired and achy he only managed to look up at the ceiling.

Around him he could hear Bill and McGonagall moving. McGonagall had gone to his dresser to get some fresh clothes for him. He was annoyed that she was handeling his underware, but didn't have the energy to say anything. He could feel Bill undo his pants and slide them off. Before he knew what was happening Harry felt tears sliding through his closed eyes and down his face. He felt McGonagalls hand on his forehead again, and she stroked his hair soothingly. He knew she was watching. He felt Bill finally tug his pants from his ankles. He could feel on his legs that they were soaked through in blood. Next he felt a cool cloth wipe his legs clean, and a soft fluffy towel, undoubtedly one of Aunt Petunia's, was being used to pat them dry. Bill was especially carefull of the bruises around Harry's knees and upper thighs.

Next he felt use something to cut into the leg holes of his briefs. He wondered why Bill opted to destroy them, but then he realized they were also soaked in blood. He felt Bill's cool hand slip the underware from between his legs as if it were a diaper. He felt something plasticy rub him as the underware slid out. The maxi pad. More tears cascaded down his cheeks. McGonagall wiped them gently with one hand, and stroked his hair with the other. He felt Bill clean him, or at least try to. Harry felt him wipe blood from the sides of his legs, and then from between them. Bill cleaned off his genitals, but with a small gasp when he saw the bruise marks on Harry's penis. He wiped blood clots from his brown pubic hair, and then gently turned him on his side. He muttered a charm and all of a sudden it felt like the blood had stopped. Bill cleaned his bruised and torn backside, and carefully laid out a towel before easing him back over. As quickly as he could, he put a new pair of underware on Harry, followed by some clean pants. It felt good to be clean. "Thanks" he mumured to Bill.

"No prob, Harry." Bill murmered back.

McGonagall was now sitting him up against her, and had reached down to pull his shirt off. As soon as she got to the arms, Harry tried to resist, but she didn't even notice. A sudden gasp followed by silence told Harry that they had seen his arm. He pushed himself back down onto the bed and rolled over on top of his arm. Those were his cuts. They were not for anyone else to see or judge. They were private.

McGonagall tried to pull him up a bit. "Harry, we are only going to put a shirt on you." she promised him. He was tired, he had no choice but to accept. He allowed himself to be lifted slightly and a shirt slide over his head. He felt Bill lowering the sleeve down over this mutilated arm. McGonagall lowered him against her and sat stroking his hair while Bill put his socks and shoes on him.

"Harry, we are going to do a side-by-side apperation. We'll end up just in front of 12 Grimmauld Place. From there, Bill and I will help you in. For the apperation, I want you to hold onto both of our elbows as tight as you can. Do you understand?" Harry nodded. "Good," she continued, "we'll send somebody back to get your things once we get you settled. Now stand up and take our elbows... good."

There was a faint pop and the trio disapperated.

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Harry awoke in his usual room at Grimmauld place. He recognized it by the portrait, or at the moment lack there of, of Phineus Nigellus. Thankfully the deceased headmaster was currently elsewhere. He slowly began awake fully. In an instant everything came back to him. He was at Grimmauld place because Bill and Professor McGonagall found last night. Last night... that was right; he had run away and when he got back Uncle Vernon was waiting for him. It didn't seem quite real, but why else would he be here? Another vauge memory hit him- McGonagall had held his hand and wiped his forehead. She knew everything... He groaned softly.

"Well, Harry, I am glad you are awake. I was reluctant to wake you, but at the same time reluctant to let you sleep through lunch." Professor McGonagall's hand appeared over his own, just as it had the night before. He refused to role his head over to look at her, but nonetheless gripped her hand.

"How are you feeling?" she asked him gently. He hesitated a moment and then roled over and looked at her. Her face was full of concern, but still exuded an air of strictness. 'Perhaps I have just learned to associate McGonagall's face with strictness...' Harry thought to himself. She squeezed his hand lightly and prompted him again in a kind voice, "Harry?"

Harry had time to turn his head away from the teacher before vomitting all over himself. He tried to catch it in his throat, but that only caused burning bile to seep into his nose. McGonagall quickly reached over and placed her hands on the boy's forehead and shoulder to support him while he wretched three more times into the blanket. When he was done she vanished the vomit, though the wetness of it remained on the bedding. She again waved her wand and the bedding was changed. Harry collapsed back into it and began to shiver uncontrollably. McGonagall conjured a damp cloth and set it on Harry's forehead. She then reached into her robes and took out a small bottle of potion.

"Here, Harry, drink all of this. It will help with the nausea as well as help rebuild your strength." Harry looked at the potion with disdain. He clamped his mouth shut, and turned back over.

"I don't need it, thank you professor." He said curtly to the wall.

"Harry, you are not well. This potion will help you feel better." the professor gently argued.

"I apologize for being sick just a moment ago, ma'am, but I am quite sure I am better now. I do not need your potion." Harry responded. He didn't mean for his voice to be as sharp as it registered in his ears, but that bothered him very little.

"Harry, why do you refuse to take the potion?" questioned McGonagall. "This medicine will help you recover quickly."

To be honest Harry was not sure why he was refusing the potion. It thretened him a bit, he supposed, to have to admit his present condition. Perhaps if he refused to acknowledge treatment it would be the same as refusing the problem? But couldn't help but scoff at the words "medicine" and "recover." Like such a thing were possible, and even if they were, why would he want them? Thoughts continued to swirl in his head.

"I don't need your potion." He said flatly, not even adding a respectfull "professor."

McGonagall raised her brows slightly. "Harry, I-"

"I think I would like to take a shower, professor." Harry cut in quickly. He broke his stare from the wall, but still refused to meet her eyes as he struggled to swing himself out of bed.

"Harry, I'm afraid I can't let you get into the shower just yet." McGonagall started. "We are very concerned about you, and think that it would be better if you had somebody with you. It will only take a moment for me to fetch Remus..." She trailed off slightly, expecting a fuss from the young man sitting in front of her. He showed no reaction to her words. She stood up slowly, waiting for a reaction, and then quickly left the room to get Lupin.

Only a minute or two later, the door opened again, and Remus Lupin walked through the door. Harry usually enjoyed seeing his former teacher, but this time he felt nothing when he looked at the man.

"I want to take a shower," he said.

Lupin nodded silently but kindly. He waited patiently for Harry to get off the bed and gripped him gently on the elbow once he stood up. Harry was greatful for this as the room span around him. When everything steadied he inhaled deeply and Lupin dropped his arm.

"You lost a lot of blood, you're bound to be dizzy." Lupin explained quietly. Harry nodded in response, and the two set out for the bathroom. By the time they had made it down the hall Harry was swaying slightly, and Lupin had his hand on the boys arm again. Harry slumped against a wall, and before he could get himself up Remus had picked him up. He carried him wordlessly back to his room and lay him down.

"Do you see now why you need potion?" He asked.

Harry gave no response.

"Harry, we are worried about you."

Again Harry gave no response, except to turn over and draw the blankets over his body. Remus sighed and sat back in his chair. Minerva was right, this was bad.

"I just don't understand why he won't take the potion." said Minerva, sitting with Remus, Tonks, and Severus around the kitchen table.

"I think he is looking for something to try to control." offered Tonks. "I mean, the cutting and the refusal of the potion are both choices he's able to make. Let's face it, his uncle didn't give him many choices."

Remus drew his brows together, "Surely he can do better than this, though. Refusing our help is simply foolish."

"Do you think he's mad at us for not finding him sooner?" Minerva wondered out loud.

Remus nodded, "Could be..."

"Maybe he's just mad in general, he's gotten the shit end of things lately." Tonk offered.

"Yeah, he has." agreed Remus.

"The fact remains," Severus spoke up, "That he needs to eat and take the healing potions. When I examined him this morning he was very weak. Whatever his reason for refusing treatment, we cannot allow him to refuse."

"Severus, how could you be so cruel?" asked Tonks. "We can't force him, he's been forced through enough already."  
"Ms. Tonks, I am... aware of Potter's situation. However, sympathy doesn't do him any good if he's dead. Now you can take my advice or leave it. I am, after all, only a trained healer turned teacher. It isn't as if I know anything of health or teenagers." At that Snape stood and walked out of the room, black robes billowing behind him.

After he had left Tonks looked down at the table and softly said, "It isn't as if I want Harry to get worse."

Remus placed a hand over hers. "We know that, and Severus likely knows it as well. After what happened with Albus, however, I think that he is on a personal mission to keep everyone he comes in contact with alive."

Minerva sighed again and spoke, "We know Albus told him to go through with the unbreakable vow. We know he didn't want to kill him. But sometimes, Nymphadora, he forgets that."

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Harry rolled over again, this time fully aware he was in his bed at Grimmauld place. To his confusion, Remus Lupin was sitting in a chair next to him reading a book.

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked accusingly.

Lupin gave a weak smile and answered evenly, "We are not letting you alone yet. I am here to in case you get sick or try to harm yourself."

"I don't need a sitter. Go away." Harry commanded.

"No, Harry, I won't do that. I am going to stay here with you until you are better."

"My wounds are healed." argued Harry. "Though I'm not going to ask which one of you shoved your wand up my ass, I'd appriciate it if you remember that one of you did."

Lupin raised his eyebrows slightly at Harry's acidic retort, but stayed sitting in his bedside chair. "No, Harry, I am going to stay here." He reached into his robes and pulled out the small vial of potion that McGonagall had had earlier. "I'd like you to take this Harry. It will help."

"Fuck off." was Harry's only reply. He rolled over and stared at the wall until he fell back asleep.

Remus watched the boy turn from him and eventually drift into sleep. He didn't know what to think. Was this really James and Lilly's son? Was he really so cold and unloyal to those around him? When Bill and Minerva had informed him of Harry's condition, he thought that Harry would be at an advantage being with in a house full of Order members, and with one exception, Gryffindors. At first it seemed that things would be okay. He had agreed to come here, accepted affection from Minerva, and did not initially resist being watched. However everything was going wrong.

'Tonks could have been right.' He found himself thinking. She seemed to have a great deal of insight into this matter. He certainly had not considered that any of this could have to do with power and control. The theory seemed a little melodramtic at first, but as he continued to think, he couldn't help but notice how well it described Harry's behaviors.

The next time Harry woke up was only an hour and a half later. He looked over to see Remus still sitting in his chair next to the bed. He glanced up from his book when he heard Harry stir. His eyes then focused on the little bedside table next to him. Harry's gaze followed it. On the table there was a bowl of thin soup and, next to it, the healing potion. When Harry's eyes wandered back to Remus' the man spoke.

"You can choose one or the other. Of course, it is better if you take both." he said calmly.

"Go fuck yourself, Remus." Harry responded, just as calm. Remus sighed and set his book down on the table.

"Harry, what's going on?" he asked. Recieving no response he spoke again. "Your parents died for you after devoting their lives to the Order. Are you really going to act like this now? It's a slap in the face to everything and everyone your parents believed in."

"Fuck off, Order member Mooney." Harry snarled. He reached to the nightstand, took the soup, and turned it upside down over Remus' book. Smirking, he turned back over and stared at the wall. Remus could tell he wasn't sleeping, just simply staring.

With another sigh, Remus got up and walked out of the room.

Harry was left alone for about fifteen minutes after Remus left. He figured that the werewolf was telling McGonagall, Bill, and whoever the hell else was at Grimmauld Place about his attitude. Harry used the time to get up and go to the bathroom. A quick inspection showed that the bruise marks were fading more quickly than natural; it probably had something to do with that creamy stuff smeared all over them. A hand swept over his shoulder told him that the bite marks that had been there were healed, and the same seemed true with every other scratch Vernon had given him. He did not check his arm. He did, however, check his penis. The same lotion that had been applied to his other bruises was smeared over the fingerprint bruises there, as well as into his pubic hair. A glace into his underwear told him that the anal bleeding had been stopped. As embarassing as it was to think that one of the Order had had to close the tears with their wand tip, he was greatfull not to be bleeding. Merlin he hoped it had been Bill who healed him and not Remus or McGonagall. Whoever had done it, Harry conceded, had done a good job. The only effects of the attack were the fading bruises and some aching muscles between his thighs and navel.

Turning on the faucet as hot as it would go, Harry began to scrub his hands, arms, and face in the sink. Steam clouded the disgrunteled mirror, but he payed the enchanted object no mind. He also paid no mind to the knocks comming through the door. He could hear McGonagall, and then Remus call his name, asking him to unlock the door and come out. He simply continued to wash his hands and face. By the time the professors' Alohamora spell cancelled out Harry's locking charm, he was red and raw from the harsh scrubbing and heat. They ran to him.

"Harry! I left you because I didn't want you to be upset, not so that you could sneak away!" Remus yelped out as he rushed in. He made to grab the boy and either shake him or hug him, but froze when he saw fear ripple across Harry's features. Remus drew back and wiped his face with his hands. He sighed, and then walked back through the door and away from the crowd.

Bill Weasley had appeared from seemingly nowhere and cleared his throat. "Harry, why don't you lay back down on the bed and let us know what we can get you to drink while we put balm on your hands."

Harry's barely focused eyes settled on the redhead. "I don't need any fucking balm for my hands. I want them this way."

Bill quirked his head to the side "Does that mean you will take something to drink? I'll be having pumpkin juice."

Harry looked at the man in front of him as if he were crazy, but nodded very slightly to see what he would do.

"All right then," said Bill. He snapped his fingers "Buesie!" a house elf popped into existance, "Please bring me and Harry some pumpkin juice."


	2. Chapter 2

That night Harry lay in his bed looking up at the ceiling. Nothing seemed to make sense, but that was okay, as nothing really mattered. He couldn't bring himself to care about the situation he was in. It seemed as though he had used up all his emotional reserves earlier. He pictured himself as a gas gauge with the needle dipped to E. There was simply nothing left.

He wasn't really sure why he had been so upset at Remus. It seemed like everything the werewolf had said and done to him had warranted a screaming rage earlier, but now he just couldn't figure out why. But of course, that wasn't too big of a deal. It didn't really matter after all. Harry could do nothing more than lie on the bed staring at the ceiling and concede to the world. He lost, and that was it.

Harry sighed and continued staring into space. He couldn't even care about the fact that Aurther Weasley was sitting in a chair by the window guarding him from himself.

A few minutes later the door creaked open. Not caring who was there, Harry remained completely still. He did hear, however, hear thick robes sweeping across the floor and he could smell the odor of a potion. He heard Mr. Weasley leave. When the chair next to his bed creaked under somebody's weight, Harry's curiosity proved itself still in existence. He looked, and saw Snape sitting next to his chair with a steamy goblet.

Had Harry been in any other circumstance he would have smirked at the potions master. The man had obviously thought Harry to be asleep and there was a split second that his face registered surprise. It was, of course, quickly schooled into a blank expression, but both wizards new it had been there. As it was, though, Harry couldn't care less.

"Drink this Potter." ordered Snape, thrusting the steamy goblet at him. Harry heard a small voice in the back of his head tell him that it could be poison, but he really didn't care. He drank it, and then looked back at Snape.

"You killed Professor Dumbledore." He said to the older man. It was not a question, an allegation, or emotional in any fashion. It was a simply stated fact.

Snape's eyes burned brightly for a moment before he returned to his schooled expression. "Stating he obvious are we Potter?"

Harry just looked at him. Snape's barbs didn't really hurt, and he wasn't curious enough about the other man's presence to question him. He just looked.

Snape sighed again. "Since you will know doubt want to know, I will explain this situation to you. I killed Dumbledore on his orders so that I might maintain my position as a spy. He felt that my role in the Order was more important than his. I could not disobey him. Several weeks ago, Minerva found out about the headmaster's plan and I was allowed to return to the Order and share my information. That is why I am here. There will be no questions on the matter, understood?"

Harry blinked at him in understanding. He really couldn't bring himself to care too much.

"As the Order member with the most medical training, I have also been acting as your healer. I came in here to administer the potion and check your wounds. Since you are awake, you will assist me." Snape commanded. When he got no reaction from Harry, he continued.

First he performed spells that checked Harry's temperature, pulse, and magical levels. Everything was in order. Then he began to check the bruising and cuts from Vernon on his upper torso. For this Harry was asked to remove his top. Not caring if Snape saw the self inflicted wounds on his arm, he did as he was asked. Snape did not grant him any privacy with these wounds, but he did not sneer or make snide comments either. In the back of his mind Harry noted that that was unusual. He allowed himself to be poked and prodded, turning obediently when asked. Snape cleaned all of his wounds and reapplied the healing salve Harry had found earlier. When his torso and back were complete Snape spelled his pajama top back on him and positioned a blanket over his chest.

Harry looked at the ceiling, even as Snape began to speak again.

"I need to examine your legs and genitals now. Please remove your sweatpants." The command was softly spoken, but a command none the less. Harry registered the difference, but as usual didn't care. He took off his pants and laid them aside. He looked back up at the ceiling as if he was not lying exposed for the second time (he was conscious of) naked from the waist down before a man he hated this summer.

"I'll start with your legs" commented Snape. He tugged the blanket over Harry's top half down to the top of his thighs. He proceeded to clean the cuts and put salve on the bruises. When he reached the blanket covering Harry's midsection he hesitated and looked at the boy. He was still staring almost serenely at the ceiling.

"Potter, I have to treat your genitals and backside now." He looked on as the boy nodded. He cleaned and applied to his wounds, even the lacerations in his anus, without any fuss, or reaction at all, from Harry.

When he finished, he spelled the boy's pants back on and spread the blanket out over him and left.

When Harry woke the next morning he looked around. He was still in his room at Grimmauld place, and Professor McGonagall was sitting in the chair by the window. He could feel her watching him as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

"Good morning Harry!" she gushed as she crossed the room to sit in the chair by his bed. "I am so glad to see you are up. I was afraid you would sleep through breakfast! We have toast, waffles, melon, apple slices, peach slices, bacon, sausage, ham slices, yogurt-"

"Not hungry." Harry grumbled. It wasn't that he was opposed to food, it was just that he needed the older witch to be quiet. Every word she said was spoken with so much exuberance that he could feel his nerves fray.

"Oh but Harry, you must eat." McGonagall argued. "Your body needs the nutrients to make you healthy and happy. You do want to be healthy and happy, don't you?" Irritated, Harry only shrugged. "I will not have an underfed seeker on my Quidditch team. You must eat breakfast! Don't you want waffles? If not, I am sure Dobby can make you something else." She looked at Harry expectantly.

"I don't want breakfast; go away." His voice was almost a whine.

McGonagall laid a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, but she pretended not to notice. "Come now, Harry, don't think about unpleasant things like the… you know. Think of happy things like flying and your friends!"

Harry's patience was wearing with every syllable his Head of House chirped out. He needed to get away from her. She wouldn't shut up. He tried to stretch his legs. They were tired and stiff. He could make a run for it, but it was too likely he'd stumble before he got out of the room. They had taken his wand, which meant there could be no silencio cast. He could try to retreat into himself. That always worked. He could just shut out the world around him. The best way to do that would be to cut. They had taken every needle and knife from his room though… he would have to use his fingernails.

As McGonagall yammered Harry pinched his nails into the palms of his hand. He pinched until he felt four little half moons cut into the skin. It was something, but it was not enough. He bit his lip. It hurt like hell. McGonagall didn't even notice that his lower lip was sucked between two rows of teeth. Harry pressed against the resistance of the skin until he could taste the coppery blood in his mouth. He smiled. When he bit again, he ground his teeth against the flesh. The pain was terrible and Harry loved it.

"Oh Sweet Merlin! Harry! What are you doing?" McGonagall yipped. Apparently she had seen. She had her handkerchief in her hand was trying to dab at the blood snaking down Harry's chin. Harry ground his teeth. McGonagall cast a patronus that went darting out of the room. Thirty seconds later Tonks, Bill Weasley, and Snape came dashing into the room. McGonagall tried to explain what was happening in between panicked gasps. They were loud, but Harry could only hear them as a dim roar. He was focused on the pain. It was calming, soothing, and familiar. It was the perfect relief and language for him.

Strong fingers clamped his mouth. The pressed on the joint of his jaw until his mouth popped open like a fish. Harry spat blood at the potions stained hands on his face, but they did not move.

"Out! Take your circus elsewhere while I deal with the boy!" the owner of the blood spattered, potions stained hands hissed. The roar roared for a few more moments before disappearing entirely.

Snape's appeared close to his own and black eyes inspected his lower lip. "It is bitten through, Potter" he said at last. "I will begin to heal it, but to do that I will need my hand." There was a tug of Snape's hand and Harry's entire face was brought closer to the other wizards. "When I let go, do not bite down." Snape's voice was deceptively smooth and quiet. Harry knew from years of experience that this voice was to be taken seriously.

Snape lessened and finally removed his grip from Harry's jaw. Harry tested the joints a few times, but did not bite his lip. Snape pressed a clean white cloth against Harry's open lip and instructed him to hold it there. Harry complied. Snape carefully cleaned the wound and stitched it closed using magical thread.

"It will remain sore for at least a week, but the cut will not reopen. It is, however, still possible for you to bit through your lip again." Snape said as he vanished the bloody washcloths from the night table.

Not sure what to do, Harry looked away.

"You still need breakfast." Snape commented. He snapped his fingers and Dobby appeared carrying a small bowl of tepid oatmeal and a glass of milk. Snape took them from the elf and set them on the night stand. "Sit up and eat." He commanded simply. He sat down in the chair by the bed and began to scribble in a notebook he had pulled from within the folds of his cloak. He didn't look up.

Harry looked at the oatmeal and milk. It was a simple and subdued breakfast. Right now, that was his favorite kind. He started to eat, and then continued voraciously. The oatmeal was gone after a few minutes and he set his bowl down and reached for his milk. Snape looked up from his notebook and arched a brow at an empty bowl. He waved his wand and the dish refilled. He went back to scribbling, as Harry ate seconds of oatmeal.

"You cannot continue as you have." Commented Snape after Harry had finished and seemingly out of nowhere. Harry was surprised into looking at the professor. He was leaning back in the wooden chair with his arms folded over his chest. Harry gaped at him a moment before he answered.

"What do you mean?" He truly had no idea.

"I mean, Mr. Potter, that you cannot inflict wounds upon yourself every time you are faced with a situation you cannot handle. It is not safe, nor healthy, nor effective." Snape answered.

Harry nodded and looked down into his lap. He didn't entirely agree with Snape. Nobody ever died of a bloody lip, and if it got him through the moment, how could it not be effective? Of course, he had no intention of voicing his opinions.

"Do not treat me as if I am stupid, Potter. If you agreed with me I would not have had to sew up your lip." Snape drawled looking pointedly at the red blotch below Harry's mouth.

"I do not wish to upset you, Sir." Harry whimpered, showing as much submission as he could without baring his neck to the other man.

"I do not care if you upset me or not, you foolish child. I expect you to be honest with me. I am not going to sit here and watch you crumble into broken Boy Wonder, and I am not about to do all the work either." Snape snapped harshly, but without the usual malicious bite in his voice.

Harry nodded again. "What do you want me to do then, Sir?" When Snape looked pensive and did not reply immediately Harry's hart sank. Great. Another list of things for him to accomplish that he simply didn't give a shit about even if he thought he could do them. He curled his fingers into his palm and dug the nails into the soft skin there for the second time that day.

"I wish you to start a journal, Potter. At least three times a day I want you to record your emotions and thoughts. If an incident of self injury occurs, you will document in detail including the injury itself, the events that lead up to it, and the effects the injury had on your state of mind." Snape answered.

Harry was shocked. He didn't even think that Snape even knew emotions existed. How could he record his own for the bat? He fell back on his natural snottyness as a teenager. "And what? If I don't record the appropriate emotion you'll give me detention?"

Snape rolled his black eyes. "Don't be daft, Potter. I am not going to even read your journal. I will just verify that you are writing in it." Harry must have looked confused, because Snape smirked at him. "In all my years of teaching, you are the worst liar I have ever come across. I will know if you do not write."

Harry accepted that. He knew Snape would know. He bobbed his head in acceptance of the terms.

Snape conjured a dark green leather journal for him, as well as a pen and handed them to him. "You will not use either of these to harm yourself in anyway."

"Yes sir." Harry agreed out of habit.

Snape smirked again. "I do not need your compliance in this matter. They are spelled so that you will not be able to use them against your own body."

Harry looked disbelieving at Snape for a moment and then reached for the pen. He stabbed it to his arm with force enough to bruise. But when the pen hit his skin it turned into dough. It mushed against his arm. When Harry peeled it off, it reverted to it's former pen state. Harry stared at it until he was interrupted.

"Write" Commanded Snape, not looking up from his notes.

Harry opened the journal and began to write.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry looked at the diary with complete and total disintrest before he picked it up. Snape had wanted him to write. Harry didn't feel like writing a whole lot, but that was okay, because Snape had set no word count on his entries. He could jot down anything and it would appease the man, so he might as well do it and avoid a confrontation.

Tuesday June 15th

Today I ate porrige for breakfast and bit my lip. Snape says I have to say why I bit my lip. I did it because I wanted to. I am supposed to say how I felt afterwords. I felt like I had blood in my mouth. I will have to write again later.

Satisfied that his few sentences would appease Snape, Harry set the journal aside and closed his eyes.

Two hours later Harry found himself in the boat he had ridden in with Dumbledore to find the horcrux. He heard a splash and looked out the boat. Teams of inferi were swimming back and forth through the water. When he looked closer, he realized that many of them were swimming circles around the boat. Terrified he looked to the headmaster for help. It was then that he noticed the cold glazed look on Dymbledore's eyes. The man's face was blank and pale, he was dead. Harry wasn't sure how it had happened, but knew it to be true. He went up to his dead mentor and touched the mans bearded cheek lightly. As he did, the boat rocked and dipped down at the oppisite end. Harry looked up and met the eyes of Uncle Vernon.

Like a flash his uncle had crossed the few steps seperating them and grabbed him by his hair. He bent him over a footboard of a bed that had appeared out of nowhere and tore his pants down. Vernon thrusted himself into Harry so harshly the boy was sure he could hear the blood spurt out of the wounds. A large beefy hand wound it's way around to Harry's front and grabbed ahold of his cock. Desperate for a distraction from the manipulation, the glutteral laugh in his ear as his traitorous flesh responded, and the intense pain Harry looked straight into Dumbledore's dead eyes. He would be so dissapointed. Dumbledore's body was joined then by Sirius' body. Next to that was Cedric's, and beside him were his parents. He looked at all of their unfocused and dead eyes. They were dissapointed. They were disgusted. They were sickened.

Harry dropped his eyes, unable to meet those of his victims. He had no reason to look at them, no right. He had no reason to fight either. He slumped his body in defeat. His muscles relaxed causing his shoulders to fall away from his neck where he had been squeezing them. Not that they ever became invisible to his uncle, but it was better than doing nothing. As if noticing the shoulders for the first time now that they had descended, Vernon growled and bit hard into them. The older man loosened and reclenched his teeth in rhythm with the thrusts. Finally there was a long clamping bite on Harry's right shoulder and a wet warmth trickling from his anus signeling Vernon's orgasm.

To his shame, Harry was still erect in Vernon's hand. To his greater shame, he began to thrust into the fist. His uncle laughed at him and didn't even move his hand while his nephew fucked it. Harry's breathing grew ragged and he began to aim himself so that his sensitive underside was skimming over his Uncle's fingernails. Sweaty, exhausted, hopeless and drowning in his own guilt Harry spurted through Vernon's hand. Harry saw the thick white liquid it the floor of the boat. He closed his eyes in shame, and when he opened them again he was in his bed at Grimmauld Place.

Harry groaned and rolled over, trying to hide the erection he felt between his legs. It was so disgusting Harry didn't even want to think about it. He looked around and saw Bill sitting with him in the room. He had a book open in front of him and was peering over the top of it to look at him. Bill's face showed no evidence that he had been aware of either the nightmare or of Harry's aroused state. For that Harry was intensely relieved. He watched as the redhead located a bookmark and stuffed it in his novel. When his eyes met Harry's they were relaxed.

"Hey Harry. Soup or sandwich?" Bill asked.

Harry was mildly surprised that Bill even dared to ask after the last time Harry was asked about food. "I'm not really in the mood for eating, but thanks Bill." Harry muttered back.

"Not an option. Snape says you need to have something in your stomach when you take the midday healing potion." Bill answered.

"I'm not really in the mood for any potions either." Harry said flatly.

Bill actually laughed. "Well I wasn't in the mood for seven years of potions classes in the deep dark dungeons, but the bat can be quite convincing, can't he."

Harry did not appriciate the chummy banter. He had no reason to talk, and to be honest, he didn't even have any right to talk to somebody like Bill. Realizing he was feeling somewhat better from the rest Harry swung his legs over the bed. He bolted for the door and tore down the hallway. He crashed himself against a spindley table and sent an container that looked curiously like an urn crashing down to the carpet. He bolted through the thick ashes and rounded the corner. If he could get himself down the stairs he could make it to the front door.

He flew down the steps and woke Mrs. Black with the noise. She was shrieking so loudly from her frame that Harry didn't even hear a deep voice cast Imperio.

"You will come to the sitting room with me." Snape's voice said in Harry's head. Harry tried to summon up the ability to fight off the curse as he had done before, but he was so exhausted on the inside that he couldn't even make a different attempt. He sat down on the sofa in front of Snape.

The older wizard released the spell. Harry had no way to escape, so he didn't even try. Snape crossed his arms in front of him. "Just where, Mr. Potter, did you think you were going?"

"I was leaving." Harry answered. "I was going anywhere I could."

"And what were you going to do once you distanced yourself from us?" Snape asked.

The words came tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them. "I was going to kill myself." Shocked at what he had just said Harry felt within his mind for any truth telling curses or potions. He couldn't feel any.

Snape, guessing what Harry was doing said "I have not given you anything, nor have I cast any spells. You said that of your own volition." When Harry said nothing, "Snape settled back in his chair and became almost human for a moment. "Why do you imagine you said that?"

Harry frowned. He didn't want to get into a discussion with Snape about his secret desire for a hug or anything like that. He filled his voice with vitriol. "Probably because I want to kill myself."

A slight smirk played on the potions masters lips for a moment before he spoke again. "You realize, of course, that I can't allow you to do that." Harry nodded curtly, seeing no other way out of this situation. "Then, idiot child, we have an understanding." He waved his hand a bowl of soup appeared. "Eat."

Harry ate.


	4. Chapter 4

Journal: 

I tried to run away early this afternoon. I told Snape I was out to kill myself. I don't know why I did it- I just did. I had a bad dream and just took off. Snape (the bastard) cast the Imperius curse on me to keep me from running off. He made me eat lunch and dragged me back up here to write.

I really don't know what else to say in this thing. If there is some amazing journal entry pent up inside of me that will make me want to live a long full and happy life no matter what happens in the world, then I do not know how to access it. And to be frank, I don't give a flying fuck.

Harry leaned his back against the matress and roled on his side so that he could face away from Snape. The greasy Potions Master was sitting in the chair across the room reading a potions journal called 'The Analytic Approach to Alchemy.' To his credit, Snape had done nothing but read that journal since he had taken up sentinal duty. There was no akward conversation exceptfor a command to write. Considering that the man had kept him from suicide using an Unforgivable not two hours before this was an unexpected break for Harry.

Harry sighed and burrowed himself into the pillow. For a moment he couldn't help but think of his pillow back at the Dursleys. It was flat and stank with age. While he doubted that the one he was currently resting his head upon was new, it was soft and clean. As a matter of fact, so was the comforter and the sheets. He would have traded his soul a week before for clean sheets, and now he had them. The strange thing was that Harry wasn't happy.

Harry creased his forehead in thought and forced himself to wiggle slightly in the clean sheets. They felt good and he appreciated the texture, but there was no happiness. All the things he had spent most of the summer wanting he now had, but he was unhappy. The only conclusion that could be reached through this revelation was that Harry was an unappriciative spoiled brat. Of course, his reletives hadn't spoiled him- of that he was sure, but the wizarding world, the Order, and his friends must have spoiled him. Harry thought of all the things the people at Grimmauld Place had done for him and found that he didn't care. He felt no gratitude toward them or appreciation of their efforts. Not only was all this true, Harry realized, but the worst part was that he couldn't bring himself to care. That was right, Harry Potter was a spoiled brat and couldn't even bring himself to care.

Harry curled his still swollen lip into his mouth and bit. He barely realized he was doing it. When his mind had blanked Harry closed his eyes. He really wasn't tired, but he figured he could still sleep a little bit. After all, when he would wake again he would be closer to whatever was going to happen.

It wasn't more than a half hour later that the teen's subconscious placed him back in the dream he had suffered before lunch. He saw the dead bodies, felt Vernon fuck him and then felt himself rub off on his uncles hand. This time when Harry climaxed he felt thick liquid in his own mouth. At first this seemed perfectly normal, but after a moment he realized that this was off. He began to ascend back into the waking world.

When he was fuzzily aware of his surroundings Harry gasped as a wave of memories from the dream slammed into his mind. Gasping he discovered that he actually did have a thick liquid in his mouth. He tried to swallow it quickly so nobody would get mad. But in doing this some hit is windpipe and he aspirated.

"Cough it into my handkerchief." ordered a very deep voice. Harry did as he was told. A moment later he was staring at a white cloth with bloody saliva in it. Blood? A quick trace of his tongue through the inside of his mouth and determined that he had bit through his lip- again. No sooner had he realized this than Snape produced another piece of cloth and pressed it firmly over the wound on his lip. "Hold this." he ordered. Harry complied.

Snape cleaned his mouth and thredded another piece of magical string. The stitches hurt, but not enough for Harry to really react to. When they were firmly in place Snape wiped the area again and sat in the wooden chair Bill had left closed to his bedside.

"Would you care to tell me what happened?" Snape asked evenly.

Harry shook his head. When Snape did not look away Harry avoided his eyes.

"Obviously you had a very disturbing nightmare. That is to be expected after what has been done to you." At this Harry's cheecks flared red and he tensed visably. Snape narrowed his eyes, but gave the boy a few moments before continueing. "The most effective way for you to overcome what has happened and what your are experiancing now would be to discuss it. However, if you are not presently up to that sort of conversation, then I suggest writting about it." Harry rolled his eyes- he knew of no other way to respond. Snape continued, "Writting will help you make sense of all that has happened. It will also help you understand that you are safe from your relatives now, and that the nightmares you face are not reality now, even if they might have been before."

Now Harry was wondering what Snape had seen during the nightmare. Harry groaned silently. Had he screamed? Had he cried? But the secret part of him couldn't help but wonder if he had been aroused. The last time he had dreampt about Vernon's hand he had woken hard- had he been hard this time? If so had Snape seen? Oh Merlin, what if he had been biting his lip from pleasure?

Self loathing coursed through every fiber of his being. How disgusting was he? To be pleased by his dream? Harry realized that this was likely the answer though. Although he was the Boy Who Lived and although technically his uncle shouldn't have been having sex with him, Harry liked it and wanted it. He was a horrible disgusting person. Even Dumbledore himself would not have accepted him now.

Harry was knocked out of his reverie by Snape handing him his journal and pen. "Write." the older man commanded. Harry took the instruments but did not began. "Describe your dream and how you reacted to it when you awoke. That would likely be the easiest place to start." Snape instructed, picking up Analytic Approach to Alchemy from his chair before settling into it.

Harry wrote.

Journal:

I had a bad dream. I bit my lip. I feel like it hurts.

In the back of his head Harry heard a voice tell him that he ought to tell the truth to the journal at least, but Harry quickly snapped that part of his mind closed. He also snapped his journal closed and dropped it on the nightstand. Snape raised an eyebrow at this behavior but said nothing as Harry settled himself back into his pillow. The potions master just handed him another Potions Journal (Creepy Crawleys for the Cauldron Keepers) and went back to reading his own. Harry followed suit, though he may have spent more time looking at the pictures than the articles.


	5. Chapter 5

The next week went by quickly. Harry found himself behaving for the most part, though he doubted that many in the house would agree. The only ones he would even acknowledge were Snape and Bill Weasley. He had taken a complete dislike to McGonnagall and her over the top chipper attitude, as well as developed a strange fear of Arthur Weasley. The latter development confused Harry. He had always loved Arthur and thought of him as an uncle of sorts. The man was never obnoxious like McGonnagall was, but for some reason Harry could not stand him now. Whenever Mr. Weasley had a guard shift Harry would either sit in silence or throw a first class fit. This very clearly hurt the Weasley patriarch and more than once he had tried to talk about it with Harry, but Harry never responded well. Not that it made any sense, but Harry was hurting Mr. Weasley because Mr. Weasley had first hurt him. Harry was sure that Mr. Weasley was deserving of everything Harry gave him even though he couldn't exactly explain what the man had done.

It was strange that Harry found some amount of comfort in Bill Weasley and not his father. Harry had never really gotten to know Bill, and had always liked Mr. Weasley. Things were different now. Whereas Harry could not stand Arthur, Bill was almost always a welcome presence for Harry.

It started out that Harry did not care much for Bill, though he did not dislike him. In fact, his kindness and discretion during the rescue from Privet Drive had made Harry slightly more approving of the redhead. So when Snape made it clear to Harry that he needed to be more willing to cooperate with his other suicide-guards, Harry remembered Bill. The idea of being the perfect little compliant angel for all of his guards did not appeal. He wanted them to go away, not feel welcome to hang around. So in order to appease Snape he decided he would be tolerant of one other person. Not only was Bill the least offensive of all of his choices, but he also was an alright guy.

So it was only when Bill and Snape were his guards that Harry would speak. It was only then that he would interact with anyone. With Snape this meant that Harry would brew potions or prepare stocks of ingredients. With Bill this meant that he would play card games or learn how to break simple curses. The other guards were growing frustrated with having to constantly watch Harry sleep or stare at the ceiling, but Harry didn't care. It took quite a bit of energy to be able to interact with Snape and Bill. People just didn't understand that things like dicing rat livers were extremely draining to somebody who would rather be dead. Sometimes it seemed that Snape understood this. He was uncharacteristically patient with Harry at times, and defended him from Tonks' onslaught of suggested activities. One time, as he was running up the stairs from the metamorphmagus he could still hear the two talking in the kitchen.

"Severus he does nothing all day but brew with you in the morning and play poker with Bill in the afternoon. He needs to do other things!" Tonks was telling Snape. "There is no reason why he can't come out back with me to de-gnome the garden."

"Nymphadora," answered Snape in a drawl that sounded almost bored (though Harry suspected it was not) "Potter has been making steady improvement. For someone in his condition he has a full plate of activities. Forcing him into something else would only upset him and ultimately harm him. If he wishes to sit in solitude, then allow him to do so. Do not badger him, and for Merlin's sake girl, do try to see that he doesn't bit his lip clear off his face."

Tonks responded to Snape, but Harry was out of hearing range even after having slowed his escape to hear Snape. In a few minutes Tonks entered the room with a smile and a thick book. Not a word was spoken between the two for two hours. Harry was intensely greatful to Snape.

The potions master's only downfall was his constant demands to write in the journal. The dreams of all those he had killed as well as Voldemort and Vernon had never dissipated. He still woke up terrified and aroused. A few times he had blood in his mouth from biting his lip, and once he had a cooling sticky mess in his pajama pants. Fortunately Bill had been his guard and pretended not to notice as Harry carefully made his way to the bathroom with a fresh pair of pants strategically held in front of his crotch. Harry had thanked his lucky stars that it had been Bill and not Snape. Snape would have insisted he write about his wet dream in his journal after having asked him about it point blank.

The journal had several entries in it now. Some were only one sentence and some were paragraphs. Harry was certain that this is not how Snape had wanted him to use the journal, but as the older wizard did not chastise him for writing an entire entry in one minute, Harry did not change the practice. Snape, though insistent that Harry write something seemed to think that one sarcastic sentence was enough. Chalking this up to the older man being either stupid or crazy (or both), Harry almost didn't mind humoring the wizard.

Some days Harry actually looked forward to being with Snape and Bill and taking part in their routines. On these days Harry's mind was much more inquisitive. He wondered about many things, including Severus Snape. The man was a complete and total mystery. Harry was not entirely sure why the Order trusted him again, or why he knew about healing. Harry understood that he liked Snape because he was not pushy like the rest of the guards, but could not really think of anything particularly pleasant about the man himself. While it was true that he did not cut Harry down at every turn like he had in potions classes, he was not overly gentle or friendly with him. Harry even saw enough of Snapes interactions with the other guards to know that Snape was, well, a prick.

He was the antithesis of Arthur Weasley. Yet, Harry liked Snape, the prick, and loathed Arthur, who had tried to hug him and love him like a son.

It was while coming to this realization that Harry cut down on the rat liver but let the knife slide onto his finger. He yelped and dropped the instrument and looked at his digit expecting to see blood. There was none.

Snape was around his workstation and to Harry in a beat. He grabbed roughly at Harry's hand and held it up, inspecting it. After letting it drop back to Harry's side he looked the boy closely in the eyes.

"Damnit Potter I thought that you said you weren't going to try to injure yourself with my equipment!" Snape spat out.

"W-What? I didn't!" stammered Harry, unsure of why Snape was so annoyed.

"Then why did that knife come into such sharp contact with your hand?" Snape questioned snidely.

Harry was annoyed. "It slipped. Do you think I would shout if I had intended to cut myself? Besides Snape, it didn't even cut this skin. It only pinched it or something…." Harry trailed off as he looked at his finger. A blood blister was forming where the knife had pressed the skin into the table. It was a rather bizarre wound.

"Honestly Potter, you're a wizard, remember? I've charmed all of the blades down here so that they don't cut through human flesh. A little precaution." Snape answered.

Taking notice that Snape had said nothing about intentional injury and seeing that the man had conceded that the situation was merely an accident, Harry just grunted in response. He had nothing to say. He had been right all along.

"Perhaps you ought to pay closer attention to your work though." Snape continued. "It won't due to damage my ingredients."

Starting back on the rat livers Harry responded. "I was just thinking."

Immediately Harry realized his mistake. He had left himself open to a comment about the rarity of the event. He was sure Snape would take it, but instead the other man just raised an eyebrow and returned to his own work. "What were you thinking about that was so engaging then?" Snape asked as he measured out something that looked like blood.

Unable to help himself Harry answered. "I was just thinking about how you're a prick." Harry smirked as he saw Snape pause for only the slightest moment.

Snape responded dryly. "Potter, we have known eachother for a number of years now. If you are now just realizing that I am a prick, then I fear I have actually overestimated your intelligence."

Harry grinned at this remark. It felt weird to grin after so long, but the fact that Snape didn't even miss a beat and continued on with the self depreciating topic warranted a smile. "Ugh, yeah." He said and then quickly winced at the stupidity of the answer.

Snape rolled his eyes. He carefully added the blood to his cauldron while stirring the contents in an intricate design. "So in what way have I been a prick lately? I am certain it must be good to warrant nearly lobbing your finger off." Snape asked without looking up.

Harry shrugged and answered without really thinking about it. "You're just not Mr. Weasley, that's all."

"That is certainly true. I take it you do not consider Mr. Weasley to be a prick?" Answered Snape.

"No," replied Harry, "he's a good guy." Harry murmered while scooping up liver dices and putting them into a bowl.

"Then why is it that you refuse to be in the same room with him?" Asked Snape. Something about his voice, and the black tunnels of his eyes that looked into his made Harry feel certain that Snape already knew the answer. Uneasy, Harry looked back down and quickly started more dicing. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Snape was still looking at him.

"I don't know, I just do." Mumbled Harry. The conversation was becoming too awkward for his tasted and he hoped that Snape would stop.

"It is something to think about Potter, and definitely something to write about." Snape encouraged. Harry nodded.

After a few minutes of working in silence Snape spoke again. "I do realize that this conversation is difficult and uncomfortable for you Harry. However, I think it would be very beneficial if they continue to happen."

At his work station Harry gulped and looked down. "Yeah, ok." He answered. He did not want to give up his peaceful potions time. It gave him time to relax. Today it had even given him time and cause to smile. He did not want it to become tense and uncomfortable.

"Do not worry, Potter. I realize that cutting up potions ingredients with a prick is somewhat of a sanctuary for you. I won't strip you of it." Snape stated.

Harry snorted.

A/N Despite popular belief, I am not dead. I know I've abandoned my stories, but lately I've been feeling a bit of a desire to write. So yes, I am back. I will hopefully be updating Chicago soon as well.

I would VERY much love a beta. If you would like to help me out drop me a line!


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